Oubliette
by Xanthia Morgan
Summary: Clark is seriously injured and the Kent's work against time to save his life. Any flames about the ending must be spelled correctly or they will not be read. COMPLETE
1. Default Chapter

Standard Disclaimer: This story is a work of fanfiction, intended solely for the enjoyment of the reader. No profit is being made from this, no money has changed hands. I do not own the characters nor did I create them. ('Cause if I did, Clark would just go ahead and kiss Lana and stop this whole calf-eyed mooning around thing but then again maybe not since I like Chloe better). 

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AN IMPORTANT NOTE!!

I have had trouble getting italics to translate in the uploading process so ....

1 - Internal thoughts are designated with a *before and* after. 

2 - Flashbacks are preceeded with 

*****

and when the flashback is done

*****

Sorry about the confusion, it's the best I've got for now.

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Other notes: 

My apologies to Rebecca who wrote a story of this same name back in April. No infringement was intended, I simply didn't do my 'title homework'. 

Xanthia

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Oubliette

by Xanthia Morgan

The deluge lasted three days. Three days without stopping, without relenting. Lakes swelled, rivers threatened upper banks and streams that once carried minute amounts of water now moved with growing momentum.

Those folks who lived along waterways began to fill sandbags and talk about moving valuables. But the people who lived along the banks of Black Creek just scratched their heads and wondered at their luck. The wide stream, while thick with runoff, was no higher than normal for rainy days. They couldn't know that a smaller, underground stream was taking most of the water load, eating a path through a hidden vein of soft dirt and crumbling rock, until it reached a place where the rock wasn't so giving and it had no choice but to boil upward toward the lush Kansas farmland. In a frenzy of kinetic energy, the water rush ate away at the vulnerable earth, creating a deep pool that reached ever closer to the surface above. Then the rains stopped. Deprived of its energy, the water relented, ceasing its feeding frenzy just short of the grassland above. The pool drained and left a small cavern in its place. A cavern whose floor was littered with glowing green rocks. 

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Clark Kent leaned against the tractor and dumped a cup of water down his neck, sighing as the cool liquid dribbled down his back. The hot Kansas sun beat down on the long lengths of hay drying under its intense rays and Clark was taking a moment to rest in the shade of the farm vehicle's huge wheels. Normally, working in the south pasture with his father was just like anything else - fast and easy. But today Clark felt as if his superhuman strength was being slowly sapped away. 

"Maybe it's just the heat," he thought. It was a particularly intense July day with temperatures hovering just below one hundred degrees. And just because he'd never been bothered by temperature before didn't necessarily mean something was wrong. Still, he couldn't help but feel that the draining sensation was oddly similar to what happened when he was around the meteor rocks. He examined his hands for the telltale signs of exposure but saw nothing unusual in their pale backs. "If I just rest a minute, I'll be fine," he told himself and he closed his eyes and let the shade cool his overheated body.

"Clark? Son? Are you alright?" 

Clark's eyes flew open and he squinted up at his father's shape silhouetted against the intense blue sky. He blinked a few times and tried to dispel the disorientation that plagued him. Something wasn't quite right but his brain was so fuzzy he couldn't get a handle on it. His father's shadow melted downward and Clark found himself looking into Jonathan Kent's very concerned face. 

"Clark?" Jonathan asked again. Clark had been working by his side all afternoon and even though he'd told his gifted son to take it easy in the heat, Clark had been working slower and slower as the afternoon wore on. Jonathan wondered a bit about that but since Clark could only work at the pace of the baling machine, he didn't dwell on it. It wasn't until Clark went to get a drink and didn't return that Jonathan got a little concerned. And when he found him slumped against the tractor wheel disoriented and confused, that concern turned into full blown worry. 

"Dad," Clark croaked as his father's distress registered through the fuzz. "I just needed to get some shade." Clark struggled to his feet. That was what was different. He'd been standing before. When had he sat down? Clark shook his head in confusion. "I must have dozed off or something." 

"Dozed off? Son, we need to get you home." Something was definitely wrong with Jonathan Kent's son. He hadn't just 'dozed off' since he was five. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He did seem to need more rest immediately after his encounters with those meteor rocks but there weren't any around here. As soon as they'd learned of Clark's sensitivity to the meteor fragments, the family had scoured these fields and removed them all, not that there many to begin with. No, the closest accumulation of the dangerous remnants was almost a mile away, in Black Creek, and that was far enough away for them to be safe.

"Dad, I'm okay. I just needed to take a break. I'm fine. We can finish." Clark pushed away from the tractor and stumbled. Jonathan caught his arm. 

"Clark!" He sat his son back down in the shade. "What is it?"

Clark sighed. "I don't know, Dad. I'm just so tired. Maybe it's the heat." 

"I've never known the heat to affect you before. Still . . . we'd better get you cooled off. Come on, son, let's get you home. I'll unhook the tractor and we'll drive over to the pickup."

Clark eyed the pickup, parked half a field away, then the tractor which was hooked to the huge baler and wagon. He knew it would take time to detach the couplings and that it would take even more time later to hook them back up. "Don't do that, Dad. I can make it to the truck," he assured his father. They'd already lost enough time today.

"Are you sure, Clark?" Jonathan knew as well as his son how much time they'd lose if they had to uncouple everything but he also didn't want to risk his son's health any more than he had to. 

"I'm sure."

Clark let his father give him a hand up and started slowly toward the truck. He hated it when he let his dad down. He knew this field needed haying and soon. It was supposed to rain again and they'd already lost one field to rot after the heavy downpour of last week, and God knew they needed the hay to sell. Things were tough on the Kent farm and Clark did everything he could to make things easier for his parents. Something like this was not what they needed. 

"I'm sure I'll feel better later, Dad," he told his father as they slowly made their way. They'd not cut this part of the field yet and the long stalks swished around their knees as they walked. 

Jonathan kept a steadying arm around Clark's shoulders. He could practically feel the disappointment radiating off his son. He knew how hard Clark worked to help keep the farm running, how hard to tried to make things better for him and Martha. He'd lost count of the times he'd given thanks for this wonderful boy at his side. Now, he just wanted to lift his spirits. "You know," he quipped lightly, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you were coming down with something,"

Clark smiled slightly at that. "Dad, you know I don't..." But whatever he was about to say was forced back by the impact of his knees hitting the dirt. 

"Clark!" Jonathan caught at Clark's arm but it wasn't enough to keep his son from crashing down. "Clark!" 

Clark wanted to answer his father but he couldn't. His head was swimming and the earth beneath him was shifting. Jonathan caught his son's swaying shoulders in his strong hands, steadying him. He released one hand long enough to cup Clark's face and bring his son's unfocused eyes up to meet his. "Clark, what is it?" he asked urgently.

"I ..." But Clark couldn't finish. Without both of his father's hands to keep him upright, his body fell forward and he landed on his side. 

"Dad . . . you have to . . . " Clark gasped as another intense wave of dizziness engulfed him.

Jonathan caught Clark's hand in his own. "I have to what, Clark? What are you trying to tell me?"

"Dad . . . you have to get out of here." 

"What?"

"Under us. Get out of here, Dad. Please. The ground . . . " Again Clark stopped short, stunned by another attack of vertigo. Despite what was happening, he could feel the ground beneath him slowly giving way. He had to get his father away! "The ground . . . is . . . "

But Clark didn't need to finish. Jonathan felt the dirt beneath him shift suddenly and he knew what his son was trying to convey. The ground was unstable. "Don't worry, Clark, I'll get you out of here."

"No, Dad! You have to move, now." Clark pushed at his father weakly, desperately trying to get him to move away before the earth beneath them collapsed. 

"I'm not leaving you, Clark." Jonathan said with stern finality as he stood up and grabbed Clark under the shoulders. 

But it was too late. The ground cracked and crumbled around them as the unsteady earth gave way and plunged them into the newly made cavern below. They hit bottom, two ungainly thuds as their bodies connected with the floor. Jonathan's head connected with an outcropping of rock and the last thing he heard as the world spun away in darkness was his son's scream of agony, echoing off the rock walls that surrounded them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Pain. Sharp. Clear. Slicing through every nerve in his body. Clark fought for breath even as the very act of breathing set his chest on fire. He desperately wanted to look for his father but couldn't. There simply wasn't enough strength in his body to keep his heart beating and move his head. Instead, he stared into the circle of sky above him and listened to his ragged breathing. 

*Fifteen feet,* he guessed as he looked up at the stone and earth that rose straight over his head. *Ten feet from side to side. Earth cut away in a circular pattern like a whirlpool. Wet walls. Recent.* His brain worked on its own, his mind grasping at anything that might distract him from the agony that wracked his body. 

A moan echoed through the pit and it took Clark a moment to realize that it was his. Never had the rocks affected him so badly. Never had he felt as if simply drawing breath would kill him. 

*I want to pass out,* his brain told him. *Please, God, let me pass out.* A surge of pain knifed through him as if in answer. 

The sauna incident had been bad, but this was ten times, twenty times worse than that. Clark moaned again, unable to hold it in. His father had saved him then. His father. 

"Dad. Help me. Please." He couldn't tell if he'd spoken aloud or not. 

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"Dad."

Something was calling him back from the darkness. Jonathan Kent groaned and fought his way out of the clinging webs that held his consciousness captive. 

"Dad. You have to wake up."

The elder Kent's eyes fluttered and he raised an unsteady hand to his aching head.

"Dad. You have to wake up. Please."

Jonathan frowned. That weak, desperate voice couldn't belong to Clark. Could it? Somewhere in the back of his fuzzy mind, he realized that he'd heard that tone before. But where? 

"Dad! Please. I need you."

With a supreme effort, Jonathan Kent forced himself into full wakefulness and opened his eyes. The blue Kansas sky beckoned from a hole above him. A hole? Then it all came crashing back. "Clark!" he yelled as he sat up, ignoring the blooming headache. 

"Dad." 

Jonathan blinked at the darkness and the spots that danced before his eyes and frantically searched the shadows for his son. Finally, he spotted a white blur amidst the dark surrounding him and crawled toward it, calling Clark's name as he went. 

"Dad. Please help me."

"I'm coming Clark." Five more feet. Clark's features were becoming clearer. 

"Wake up Dad. Please."

A confused Jonathan realized that his son was barely conscious. Flooded with dismay, he stood and stumbled the last few steps, falling heavily to his knees at Clark's side. 

"Clark." He cupped Clark's face in his large hands. His boy was shivering but his skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat, as if fever raged through him. *Impossible,* he reminded himself. *Clark doesn't get sick. The only thing that makes him sick . . . * The thought trailed off as another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Desperately, he looked around them, discovering to his horror that the floor was littered with meteor rocks.

"Oh my God," he breathed. "Come on Clark!" he patted Clark's hot face. "Come on son, talk to me."

Clark's eyes opened slowly. "Dad," he croaked weakly. 

"It's gonna be okay, son. You're gonna be okay."

"Dad. I don't feel good. I feel sick."

"I know Clark. There are meteor rocks everywhere down here. Just keep still and save your strength."

"No. Not that. I feel . . . " But Clark didn't finish. His face turned white and he swallowed, hard. 

Jonathan took one look at those, huge frightened eyes and swore. "Shit." He reached under Clark's shoulders and heaved his torso to the side. He held him there with one hand while the other supported Clark's head as he retched violently onto the floor, the water he'd consumed just a short time before coming up in a torrent.

"It's okay, Clark. It's alright. Gonna be alright." The litany left his mouth automatically as Clark's body continued to heave with the force of the spasms. After what seemed like a long time, the spasms ceased and he lifted Clark's head to rest against his chest. Jonathan pulled his shirt up and wiped his son's trembling lips. 

"Cold. So cold." Clark mumbled as he began to shiver in earnest. 

"Clark. Has this ever happened before? Like this?"

Clark shook his head, too terrified to speak. What was happening to him? The rocks were bad but it was never like this. 

Jonathan continued to cradle his son as his eyes scanned the pit in desperation. It appeared that the majority of the meteor fragments were right around where Clark had fallen. The other side of the cavern, where he had landed, was relatively free of them. Also, the other side was in sunlight which would certainly be warmer than where they were now. It might not help much to move Clark over there, but it couldn't hurt either. 

"Clark. I'm gonna move you over to the other side of this hole. It's sunny there. You'll be warm. Can you hang on while I do that?"

Again, Clark just nodded. Jonathan stood and leaned a moment against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to subside before he moved again. The headache was a leveling out into one vicious throb now. He could live with that. Standing was another matter. He was still overwhelmed with vertigo when ever he changed position. 

"Dad?" Clark's worry was clear in his voice. "Dad, are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he lied. "Just taking a minute to figure out the best spot." He bent over and grabbed Clark under the arms. "I'm gonna drag you over, okay. Nice and easy."

A small cry of pain escaped his lips as his father began to pull him across the floor. He bit his lip against the 'Stop!' that threatened and clenched his hands into weak fists. Oh, God, but it hurt to be touched!

"Almost there, Clark. Almost there." He heard his dad's reassurances over the pounding in his ears. He couldn't see his father's face or the tears that streaked down his cheeks as he knowingly caused his son pain. These were easily the longest ten feet of Jonathan Kent's life and just when he thought he'd made a huge mistake, they were in bathed in sunlight and the floor was bare of debris.

"I'm gonna move these rocks as far away from you as I can," he explained as he lay Clark down and walked away. He picked up the sources of his son's anguish and piled them in a small crevasse under the wall farthest away from them. Then he covered them in what dirt and rock he could find. "There. That's done. Does that help any?" He turned around and the words faded away into silence as he took in the sunlit form of his son. It wasn't the dark bruises forming on Clark's face that erased the words from his tongue. Nor was it the deep gashes that turned his white tee-shirt red. No, what struck Jonathan Kent mute with horror was the long spike of glowing green rock protruding from Clark's left thigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

Jonathan wasn't aware he'd stumbled over to his son, nor was he cognizant of falling to his knees at his side. His focus was complete absorbed by the slice of meteor protruding from Clark's leg. He reached his fingers out, tentatively touching the tip but pulled back when Clark moaned. 

"Clark . . . " Jonathan swallowed, unsure of what to say. "I...there's . . . there's a piece of the meteor rock impaled in your leg. I think it's what's making you so sick. I think . . . I need to cut away the pant leg to see it better but I . . . I think it's deep." His eyes left the disturbing sight of Clark's leg and focused on his son's face. Clark's eyes were wide with pain and an emotion Jonathan had never seen there before - fear. 

Clark considered what his father had told him. He'd encountered the rocks before yes, but to have one in his body! That had to be what made him so sick. That had to be what was different. But it hurt so much when his father just touched the thing, to have to endure having the pants cut away around it . . . Clark didn't know if he could take any more pain. It hurt so much! Clark's eyes squeezed shut under his father's scrutiny. He didn't want his dad to see him weak, see him afraid. Still, Clark Kent was in reality, a young man, a boy despite his super strength, and he could no more stop the tears that leaked from under his lids than he could stop the agony he was feeling. 

Jonathan saw the glistening drops tracking through the dirt on Clark's face. His heart broke as he watched him fight for control. "Clark," he whispered hoarsely as he gathered this child of his into his arms. One weak arm circled his waist as he held his boy close and rocked him gently. 

"I'm afraid." The sound was barely a whisper but Jonathan heard it as clearly as if Clark had shouted. 

"I know," he whispered back. 

Finally Clark stiffened slightly and raised a shaking hand to wipe his eyes. "Okay, Dad. I'm . . . I'm ready."

"You're sure about this, son?" It was then that Clark realized that his dad was as scared as he was. Oddly, that made it better somehow. It was easier knowing that he wasn't alone in his fear. 

He managed a weak smile for his father. "No," he teased, "but do it anyway."

Jonathan grinned back at him and they both relaxed a bit. "Okay." 

The elder Kent reached into his pants and pulled out his knife. His mouth turned up at the sudden memory the knife provoked. 

****

"What's in my hand?"

"Your knife."

"Great! You saw through my hand!"

"No, Dad. You always carry your knife in that pocket."

*****

"Dad?" 

Clark's questioning tone penetrated the memory and it faded in the light of what needed to be done. "It's nothing. I was just thinking. Are you ready?" Clark nodded and Jonathan could see him steeling himself against the pain that was sure to come. 

Slowly, he sawed through the blood soaked denim, avoiding the actual area around the meteor shard as long as he possibly could. When the leg below the epicenter of the wound was free of cloth, he took a deep breath and started cutting upward. 

Up to this point, Clark had managed to clench his teeth and control the pain. But now that the shard was being jostled with every movement of his father's blade, it became harder and harder to bite back his cries. Finally, as the cloth around the very stone itself was being cut away, Clark gave voice to his pain.

Jonathan Kent did his best to ignore the sounds coming from his son. With a stoicism borne of necessity he kept at it, not realizing that the louder Clark yelled the harder he pulled at the unyielding fabric in an effort to end the torment as quickly as possible. At last, the final piece of cloth pulled free and the wound was exposed to his gaze. 

The shard was knife-shaped. Four inches showed above the entry point and Jonathan guessed that it was three inches wide at the top. The area around the point of penetration was black. Fresh blood from Jonathan's work streaked across it, making it look like some gruesome demonic portrait. He touched it again, testing how it moved. While there was some movement close to the surface, the base of the stone was unyielding, leading Jonathan to suspect that it was imbedded deep in Clark's femur. For a man who rarely swore, it was just too much. *Shit* he thought. *Shit. Shit. Shit.* He rested his head on his fist and stared at the shard. The decision was obvious. He just didn't want to make it. 

"Dad . . . ," Clark's voice was barely audible, " . . . have to . . . pull it out."

Jonathan shook his head, his eyes never leaving the ugly wound. "Clark. I don't know . . . " 

"You have to . . . "

"You're weak, Clark. I'm afraid of what it might do to you."

"Dad . . . you have to . . . pull it out . . . it's . . . "

"It's too risky, Clark."

"Dad . . . you have to . . . listen. Please . . . it's . . . killing me." 

Something in the tone of Clark's voice finally registered. Jonathan's head snapped up and he looked at his son. Clark was white with pain and fatigue. His breath came in short gasps as he wrestled with the gargantuan effort of breathing. A shaking hand came to rest across one of Jonathan's and it was then that he saw the distended, green-tinged veins. "My God," he breathed as he took in the evidence of the poison that coursed through Clark's body.

"Dad . . . not much . . . time . . . please."

"Clark . . . " 

Clark didn't answer. He was exhausted and his voice failed him. His pain filled eyes spoke for him. Jonathan closed his own eyes, blocking out the sight. After a long moment, he drew a deep, hitching breath nodded. "Okay." 

Clark's eyes closed in relief and he squeezed his father's hand with what little strength he had. His father squeezed back, then released him. He reached a shaking hand toward the shard then withdrew it and flexed it a few times. When he'd regained control, he reached out again. His fingers brushed the edges of the meteor fragment and closed around it. 

"I . . . love you . . . Dad." 

The tears he'd been holding back began to fall from Jonathan Kent's eyes. "I love you too, son. So very, very much." Then his hand fisted around the rock and he pulled.

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Martha Kent shot straight up in the hammock yelling her son's name, his scream still ringing in her head. One hand clawed at her chest while she used the other to push herself around so her legs hung off the edge. "Oh my God," she panted. "Oh my God ohmyGod ohmyGod." 

Slowly she got her frantic breathing under control and examined the nightmare that ripped her awake. Even with her eyes open and her garden blooming around her she could see it. The dark wet walls stretching upward. The bright summer sky gleaming over her head. She could feel the pain in her thigh, feel the sides of the sharp stone scraping against tortured nerve endings as it was pulled free, feel the edges of the small triangle embedded deep in the bone as it pressed against the maimed tissue surrounding it. 

"This isn't real," she kept telling herself as she absently rubbed her thigh."This isn't happening." But she knew with a mother's surety it was real, it was happening. Her son was in trouble and she had to help him. "Think, Martha!" she cried. "Think!" With visible effort, she calmed herself. "Where are Clark and Jonathan today?" she asked herself, aloud. *Haying in the south pasture.* 

Martha flew from the hammock into the house. She upended her purse on the kitchen table and searched through the contents for the keys to the pick-up before she remembered that they'd had to use it today when Jonathan couldn't get the old farm truck to start. A growl of pure frustration ground out of her throat. She had to get to them, had to get to Clark. Even if she was proved to be wrong, she'd rather face the laughter of her men than ignore the dread that coursed through her soul.

"Think, Martha," she told herself again. "There has to be another way to get to that pasture. There has to be." Her eyes roamed the room looking for anything that might trigger an idea. Something shiny glinted in the late afternoon sun that poured through the kitchen windows. She squinted at the light and moved closer to the beckoning glimmer. Hanging on a hook by the door, waving in the gentle breeze that was wafting through the open door, were the keys to Jonathan's motorcycle. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 

Jonathan knew, with absolute certainty, that he would hear his son's scream in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Staring down into the gaping wound, it seared itself into his memory, as well. Devoid of blood, it glowed green from the small rock shard that was stuck fast in Clark's femur. 

He was expecting the wound to bleed, Clark had proven he was human enough to bleed, but it wasn't. When the rock pulled free, the wound simply gaped open, the remaining piece of meteor standing out in green relief against the muscle that surrounded it. Jonathan stared at the sight in morbid fascination for a moment, then scampered to the other side of the pit to vomit. Finally, he regained control of himself and it was then that he realized the painful moans had ceased. Clark was unconscious. Terrified, Jonathan jostled him, slapped him, but there was no response. Left with nothing to do but wait, Jonathan crawled behind Clark and pulled him into a tight embrace. He buried his face in his son's ebony hair and wept. 

As the long minutes passed, questions haunted him. 

*Why can't I be a better father? Why can't I break the trend my father started and be more open, more understanding, more loving? Why do I have to judge Clark based on how my father judged me?* 

When Clark had first come to them, he'd been overjoyed. Now was his chance to right the wrongs his father had done. Not that Hiram Kent had been a bad man, or an especially bad father, he had simply been - distant. Jonathan never really felt he could reach his father, talk to him about things that mattered. And then he and Martha were given this incredible gift and he vowed to be different for his son. He would be there. He would listen. But then Clark had shown these amazing abilities and his good intentions had been replaced by fear. Fear of being found out. Fear of Clark being taken from them. Fear that a man like Luthor would take his son and use him for his own purposes. It had already happened once, with Phalen. It turned his gut to ice when he considered it happening again. 

His fear had made him unreasonable at times. He hadn't wanted Clark to join sports, afraid his son would lose control in the heat of the game. Then Clark had lost his abilities for a time and finally had the chance to play. Jonathan cringed when he recalled how much joy his son had gotten from a simple game of basketball. He'd denied Clark so much in life because of his damned fear. He was even trying to deny Clark his friendship with Lex, his mistrust and fear of the Luthor's ran that deep. He thought of Lionel Luthor having any knowledge of just how special Clark was and it made him want to vomit again. 

Jonathan sat against the cave wall, his unconscious son cradled against his chest, wrapped in arms that still shook with fear and reaction, and thought of his son's indomitable spirit, the way he felt almost obligated to use his powers to help anyone who needed it. 

*I would have him hide himself away and all he wants to do is help. I would protect him from the world and all he wants to do is lead a normal life. He says he understands but it breaks his heart to always have to stand aside and watch . . . I don't deserve him.*

"Oh, Clark!" His thoughts gave way to words without him even realizing it. "Don't you see? I just want you to be safe. You're the most important thing in our lives and if we should lose you. . . I don't know how your mother and I could go on. Nothing else matters to us. You know that, don't you? The farm, the house, none of it means anything without you here with us." Jonathan spoke in a whisper, his breath barely brushing Clark's hair. He felt the unnatural heat radiating from Clark's body and another whisper lifted through the pit. "Please, God, let my son live."

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Martha flew along the road to the south pasture, her red hair flying out in a banner behind her. The farm path was unusually smooth after the rains and she gave the powerful engine as much throttle as she dared. It had been a long while since she'd ridden the powerful Harley, and longer still since she'd attempted to drive it. Still, she gave it as much throttle as she dared, the dread in her chest outweighing any thoughts of danger or speed. The green fields passed by on either side, but she was only concerned with what lay ahead. 

"Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong." The mantra repeated in her head as the wind whistled against her ears. Finally, she saw the truck ahead and slowed the powerful engine. 

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"Jonathan!"

In his dream, he was laying on the hammock next to Martha. They were laughing at some silly joke he'd told her, content to be together and in each other's arms. It wasn't often they could spare a sunny afternoon lazing about but since the work was done for the day and Clark was down for a nap, they'd decided to take advantage of the shade and spend time just being Jonathan and Martha.

"Jonathan! Clark!"

Jonathan frowned. Why would Martha be calling him? She right here. And why did she sound so panicked? Something was definitely not right but his fuzzy brain wouldn't let him give up the peaceful dream so easily.

"Jonathan! Answer me! For God's sake! Answer me!"

The terror in her voice finally got through to him and Jonathan stirred. He blinked, surprised that it was so dark then the events of the day came rushing back. He pulled himself out from behind Clark and stood up, his hand on the wall of the pit keeping him balanced. He had to stop her before she came any closer!

"Martha!" he screamed. "Stop! Stay where you are! Don't move!"

"Jonathan?" Martha looked around the field. She heard him, but she couldn't see him. "Where are you? I don't see you."

"We're somewhere between the truck and the tractor . . . down in a pit of some kind."

"Is Clark with you?" There was a moment of silence that made Martha's heart pound. 

"Yes. He's here."

Even with the distance and the rising wind, she could hear the break in her husband's voice. "Jonathan, what's wrong?" Again the silence.

Jonathan dragged a tired hand over his forehead. How was he going to tell her? How could he tell her that their indestructible son was unconscious and possibly dying beneath the earth that had sustained them for so long.

"Jonathan!" 

He could hear her moving closer. "Stop, Martha! Clark is . . . Martha, this whole place is littered with meteor rocks and he's hurt."

Martha stuffed a fist in her mouth and bit down hard as the memory of her dream hit her full force. She couldn't lose it now. She had to keep calm. She had to save her son. 

"What do you want me to do?" she asked, searching the field with her eyes. The long grass waved in the slight breeze. Martha squinted as she followed the line from where the tractor sat to where the truck was parked. Then she noticed a slight break in the landscape about twenty yards from where she now stood. "I think I see where you are." 

Jonathan had had plenty of time to think about this so he didn't hesitate. "I want you to get the rope that's in the truck bed. If you're sure you know where we are, pull the truck to within about fifteen feet of us and hook the rope to the front bumper. Then I want you to crawl over to the edge of pit, drop the rope down and I'll rig up a harness and you can pull us out. You got that?"

Martha nodded even as she started to run toward the truck. "I got it. Hang on, I'm coming."

To Jonathan, the pit amplified the sounds of his wife's progress. He heard the truck start, heard rumble of the gear shift as she put into drive and slowly crept forward, heard the grass being crushed beneath the thick tires as she pulled closer. He knew the exact second she put it into park and let it idle while she got the rope and hooked it to the truck's front bumper. The grass swished as she moved toward him. He could almost see the way it swayed as she passed. Then the line of grass that had hidden them so completely parted and an angel from God's own heaven looked down at him. 

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Martha's fingers had never moved so fast. She fastened a sailor knot in record time, thanking God that she remembered her Girl Scout training. With the end of the rope tucked in the waistband of her cutoffs, she got on her stomach and crawled toward where her husband and son were trapped. She couldn't see it through the thick grass that waved in front of her face, so she kept putting out a hand to feel ahead. After a long minute, her hand grabbed air and she pulled the grass out of the way. Her first impression, as she looked straight down into the hole, was that she was looking into the depths of her own personal hell. 

Jonathan stood in the center of the pit. His blond hair was covered in dried blood and Martha could see the cut that ran along the side of his head. His clothes were covered in mud and filth and darker stains she had no immediate desire to identify. His face was drawn. Lines of weariness and pain were deeply etched around haunted eyes. 

"Where's Clark?" she asked, barely containing the horror she felt. 

Jonathan said nothing, he just moved is gaze from her face to a spot on the floor. Martha looked straight down and was helpless to stop the strangled cry that escaped. 

Clark lay on his back directly below her. His left pant leg had been cut away and she could see the open, black wound on his thigh. His tee-shirt, so white when he'd left her this morning, was dark with dirt and blood and she could see the deep gashes in his chest where he'd been cut with rocks when he fell. His normally light skin was deathly pale, highlighting the dark bruises that marred his handsome face. She could hear his labored breathing. 

"There's a piece of the meteor rock wedged in the bone. I couldn't get it out. I think . . . " Jonathan's face crumbled for a moment, then the calm control he'd been working on all afternoon took over again. "I think it's killing him. We have to get him home and get it out before it's . . . we have to hurry."

Martha nodded as she hastily brushed away the tears that threatened. *This is no time for crying, Martha Kent,* she told herself sternly. *You will keep yourself together.* She dropped the rope to her husband and watched as he fashioned a harness of sorts. She cringed as he slipped it over Clark's injured leg and then forced more tears back when he moaned in pain. Martha heard Jonathan speaking to Clark, soothing words that she hoped her son could hear. Then Jonathan was standing, their son clutched to his chest, and she knew she had to move. 

Jonathan listened as Martha crawled back through the grass. Then the truck shifted and he and Clark were dangling above the pit floor. Inch by agonizing inch they rose into the air as Martha slowly backed the truck up. He held Clark tightly with one arm while keeping a hand wrapped around the rope. Clark moaned and his eyes fluttered. "Hang on, son, we're almost there." Jonathan repeated the reassuring phrase over and over. Then they were level with the grass and sliding into the light of the Kansas sunset. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AN: A special shout out and thank you to Karri for the beta work and suggestions for this chapter. 

*You have done well, Padawan. ;-)

Yay to Becs who told me Jonathan Kent's father's name! (I changed it just for you :o)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Kent's old pick-up bounced along the south pasture, cutting a beeline for the homestead. As Martha fought to avoid as many bumps as possible, Jonathan tried to keep as much of himself between his son and the hard truck bed as he possibly could. Jonathan Kent was a man of few regrets but at this moment he was ready to kick himself for making Clark turn down the new truck that Lex Luthor had given him; those new shocks would have come in handy. If he had known then what he knew now, he might have swallowed his damnable pride and let Clark keep the thing. 

In the pick-up's cab, Martha was desperately trying to organize her thoughts for the task ahead. "I'll need needle and thread to close those cuts," she muttered as she swerved to avoid a pothole. "Or maybe I should just leave them open. Clark usually heals on his own when he's not around those rocks so when they start to heal I'll know he's getting better. I'll need some kind of antibiotic and I'll have to figure out a way to clean out all that dirt." Inspiration struck and she hollered out the back window. "Jonathan!" Her voice barely carried above the wind that battered her. "When we get home, we need to carry Clark upstairs to the big bathroom. I want to clean those wounds before we do anything." 

In the truck bed, Jonathan frowned as Clark moaned in pain. He pulled his son into a more secure position against his body and shouted back to his wife. "I don't think we can get him that far," he answered honestly. He was exhausted and the thought of carting his son's considerable bulk up a flight of stairs was too much for his weary body to contemplate. 

"We have to," his wife yelled. "Besides, once we get that shard out of his leg . . . " Martha swallowed convulsively before continuing. "I think it might bleed. A lot."

"But he'll be fine once we get that shard out, right? He's always been fine in the past once he got away from the rocks." 

Jonathan's voice carried all the hope she was feeling but Martha doubted it would be that easy. The meteor's poison was running rampant through Clark's system and no amount of wanting it otherwise would change the facts. All she really knew for certain was that her son was deathly ill and she wasn't sure she could save him. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Clark groaned as the pick-up bounced over the ruts in the road. He heard someone murmuring words that he sensed were meant to be encouraging but he couldn't focus on them. The roaring in his head was too loud. He felt something close around him, securing him from behind and he leaned against the warmth at his back. 

The young Kent was so cold. He couldn't remember ever having been too cold or too warm a day in his life and yet today he had known both. In the part of his brain that was still rational, still functioning on some normal level, he couldn't decide which was worse - the scalding heat of the sun that burned his skin or the bone-numbing cold that left him shivering uncontrollably. Unfortunately, the part of him that was aware enough to consider the problem was buried deep beneath pain and cold and fear, for these were the things that were foremost in his conscious mind. 

Jonathan felt Clark shiver despite the hot sun. "Hang on, Clark," he whispered in his son's ear. "We're almost home. Just hang on a little while longer and your mom and I'll have you fixed up before you know it."

"Dad!" Clark called to his father. His voice echoed in his ears and he couldn't see past the dark walls that hemmed in around him. 

Clark's cry carried above the roar of the wind. Jonathan tightened his grip and spoke into Clark's ear. "I'm here son."

Clark reached out his hand, trying to feel his way through the darkness. "Dad. Wake up, Dad. I need you." He knew his father was here somewhere, but he couldn't see a thing. Suddenly, the darkness was replaced with blinding, burning light. Green light that pierced his very bones and tore at his nerve endings. Clark could feel the skin begin to peel away from his body as the green light pulsed brighter. "Dad!" Frantic, he began to tear at the rock surrounding him. His fingers bled and he felt the exposed flesh scrape against the walls that held him captive. "Dad! Help me!" 

*He's dreaming.* Jonathan told himself as Clark began to thrash weakly in his grasp. The word 'hallucinating' floated at the edge of his mind but was refused entry. "I'm here, son. I'm right here," his mouth said, but his heart was pounding out something completely different. *He's dying. He's dying. He's dying.* Each time the blood pumped through his chest he heard the words as clearly as if he'd shouted them. 

Jonathan wanted to speak then, wanted to tell Clark how much he loved him and admired him. He wanted Clark to know how very proud he was to call him 'son' and how proud he was of Clark. But they were slowing down and the house was looming closer, so he simply held tight while Martha parked them close to the door, and prepared his tired body for the task ahead. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It had proven easier than they thought to move Clark up the stairs. In his semiconscious state he was able to provide some assistance as they double-teamed him into the bathtub. Martha's sharp sewing scissors removed the obstacle of Clark's clothing and it was only when he lay naked before them that her hands shook. 

Deep black bruises covered him from head to toe. Dirt and blood marked the places where the sharp rocks had cut him as he fell. The long gashes on his chest, like the deep wound on his leg, gaped open, leaking blood slowly as if reluctant to give up the precious fluid. The swollen veins of grayish-green that stood out in stark relief against Clark's pale skin gave mute testament to the fact that, while he might be Jonathan and Martha Kent's son in heart and spirit, he was not the son of their bodies - or of their earth. 

"Is the water warm enough?"

Jonathan turned to his wife as he took his mind off the water he was running into the tub near Clark's feet. "What? I didn't hear you."

Martha cleared her throat and swallowed. She hadn't realized she was whispering. "Is the water warm enough?" she repeated.

"I think so. It doesn't feel too much warmer than the air. That's what you wanted, right?"

She nodded and smiled, then took the detached shower wand from her husband. "I didn't think this would ever come in so handy again," she remarked as she began to gently hose the dirt off Clark's skin. They had bought the shower head unit when they'd adopted Clark. It made it easier to bathe the exuberant child and they had often felt it had been worth the investment while he was growing up. 

"I know. I wish it hadn't." 

Warmth. Water. Clark could feel it cascading down his body and his mind reached for it as something tangible in the darkness. A distant memory bubbled the surface of Clark's exhausted brain and he was eleven years old again. 

*****

It had been a dry winter and an even drier spring. The heat of summer lay heavy on the heartland and dust hung in a continuous layer above the roads and fields. To Clark, it felt as if the whole world had dried up and nothing would ever be green again. Thunder was rumbling in the evening air but so far not a drop had fallen from the blue-black sky. He stood in the yard, his face turned upward, eyes closed, willing it to rain when the sky opened up.

"Mom! It's raining!"

"Clark, come in here, you'll get soaked."

"But, Mom, it feels so good."

"There's a wind coming up, Clark, get in here before you catch a chill."

As if on command, a breeze swirled about him and the warm rain turned cold.

*****

The water ran over him, running into the broken places of his skin, washing them clean. Gentle hands swiped away the dirt and though it hurt, it was a different sort of pain, a pain that meant comfort at it's core. 

As the dirt washed away, the paleness of Clark's skin became even more apparent against the white enamel tub. Martha's smile faded as Clark shivered slightly. She warmed the water up a bit. She knew that the fever was making him cold but she also knew that she shouldn't make the water so hot as to risk raising it further. Well, that was the theory anyway. Martha almost laughed aloud at the thought. She doubted that the medical world was thinking of Clark when they suggested that. 

"Jonathan, would you clean him up while I get the rest of the things?" 

Her eyes didn't quite meet his but he knew what things she meant. Needle, thread, scissors, bandages. *Pliers* He had a sudden intense vision of the silver needle-nose pliers entering that horrible place on Clark's thigh and he swallowed forcefully against the bile that rose in his throat. 

"Jonathan?" 

"Sure. I can do that. You go ahead." He picked up a washcloth to show her that he knew what she asked and smiled tightly. "It'll be just like old times, huh?" 

Martha smiled back, just as tense. "Yeah." Then she bent down and kissed him, a kiss hard with desperation and hope. "I'll be right back," she promised. 

Jonathan soaped the thick terry cloth and picked up one of Clark's limp hands.

*****

"Now just hold still, Clark. I know you don't like to take a bath but you have to." 

Clark's luminous blue-grey eyes turned toward his father. "Why, Daddy?"

"Because you can't go around dirty all the time." Jonathan reasoned, trying not to laugh at his son's obvious displeasure. 

"Why? I like being dirty."

From where she stood, eavesdropping, behind the door, Martha Kent put a hand over her mouth and suppressed a giggle. 

"I know you do, Clark, but your mother doesn't like dirt all over her clean sheets and she says you have to have a bath before you go to bed."

The squirming six-year-old stilled, and considered this for a moment. Jonathan took advantage of the quiet moment and ambushed his son's hair. He couldn't wait to hear what his precocious boy would come up with next. He didn't have to wait long. Clark brightened and turned again to his father. "Then I won't go to bed. I'll just stay up forever and I won't get dirt on Mama's sheets." He announced proudly. 

Jonathan laughed. He couldn't help himself. "Nice try, squirt, but you're gonna have a bath."

Clark's eyes darkened with disappointment. "But, Daddy, I'm not . . . *yawn* . . . tired."

"I know, son," Jonathan commiserated as he rinsed the shampoo out of the thick black locks, "but rules are rules and the rules say it's bedtime."

"Who makes the rules?" Clark demanded to know. 

Jonathan grinned wickedly and raised his voice. "Your mother, of course." 

*****

"I think I have it all." Martha's voice penetrated Jonathan's wandering thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to cut off the tears that threatened before they fell. She needed him strong now, not sentimental. He turned to speak and realized that she was standing next to him. He could see in her eyes that she'd seen his weakness and he wanted to fall apart at her feet and let the strength that had kept them going for so long pull him in. 

Martha laid down the items she carried and pulled her husband tight against her. She didn't care that his hands were wet against her back and his tears were wet against her breast. She knew that they both needed this moment before they carried on. They needed to reaffirm that they were in this together no matter what happened. 

For all the rough times they faced and the hardships that were inherent to farming, they had always had each other. Many other couples couldn't stay the course but they had. Their bond was strong - stronger than tornados, stronger than drought, stronger than floods and debt and lean times. It was even stronger than the steel that made up their son. So many times they had held on by only this - an embrace and the silent affirmation of their love for each other. 

As if on cue, strength flowed where there was none and they could feel it coursing through their veins, pulling them from the brink. When they were once again strong, they pulled apart. Eyes met eyes and volumes were spoken without cluttering words. 

"Ready?" Martha asked, her fingers gently wiping the remaining tears from her love's eyes. 

"No, but let's go ahead anyway." 

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her farmboy's mouth, a gesture she returned. "I love you, Jonathan Kent."

"I love you, Martha Kent."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A/N: Wow! I am sooooo blown away by all the wonderful reviews. Thank you all!

I would like to apologize for the delay in getting this out. I have a couple of kids who really really really really really really really really need to go back to school. Soon. Very very soon. *breaks down in sobs* I can't WAIT another week! Vodka! I need Vodka!

Seriously, a HUGE thank you to Deanine. If it hadn't been for her (YOU ROCK! YOU ARE A GODDESS! YOU ARE SO BUSY BUT YOU HELPED ME! BEHOLD A TRUE HUMANITARIAN AND FRIEND TO ANIMALS TO BOOT!) I would never have gotten this chapter up and running. 

Xanthia


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: 1st: UBER thanks to Deanine for beta work above and beyond the call of coursework. I am beyond thankful for her insight and assistance. I just hope her professors don't find out... :-) 

2nd: I confess. I know nothing about Clark's Kryptonian parents or their language. I made it all up. I am also rather confused on when he may have actually left his home planet but - hey - it's fanfiction and I'm allowed to use my imagination. And it's not like Smallville is going by the book in every little detail (at least, I don't think it is.....) Having said that - I hope you can enjoy part 6 anyway. 

Oh! And remember that *** marks the beginning of a memory or flashback and another *** marks the end (I still haven't beaten the formatting bug even with wonderful advice from those who have succeeded). Now you can read Chapter 6.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 6 

"I wonder if this is what it feels like to die?" 

The thought was strangely clear to Clark, coming in pinpoint sharp through the thick haze that suffocated his conscious mind. The pain that had plagued him for hours, or maybe it had been forever, was duller now, almost nonexistent, and other things were making themselves known in its place. For instance, he could feel the blood moving thickly through his veins, like molasses through a tube. It was a strange unreal feeling and not entirely pleasant. In fact, Clark felt as if his entire body was moving in super slow-mo, like in the football games he liked to watch with his dad on Sundays. Not that he especially liked watching football on T.V., he just liked spending time with his father when they didn't have something to do or somewhere to be. His mom always left them alone during that time. She'd make a batch of her super nachos and disappear, leaving her 'men' to themselves. 

"I'll miss that," Clark thought. Then he wanted to laugh. He found it extremely funny that his last thoughts were not of Lana or Chloe or even Lex, but of televised sports and snack food.

Without warning, the pain that had been fading away flared up anew. Clark's mind screamed as he tried to force his exhausted, unwilling body to move; move away from the pain, away from the fire that lanced up and down his leg and overflowed into the rest of him.

"Hold him still, Jonathan!" Martha cried, raising her voice over her son's hoarse screams. They'd agreed that Jonathan's weight would be best used holding Clark down should he become restless while they worked. She also knew that her husband was not up to the task of removing the shard. She wasn't either, truth be told, but there weren't a lot of options available. 

Jonathan didn't answer his wife. He was too busy trying to keep Clark's thrashing body in the tub. "I underestimated how much strength he had left," he gasped, as much to himself as to Martha. "Can you see it?"

Martha looked down at Clark's swollen leg and the pliers buried in his flesh. The fragment was easy to see. Although it wasn't glowing as bright as one of the damn things normally would around Clark, it was still bright enough to see. And it illuminated the gore surrounding it with a sickish, green cast. She'd just gotten hold of the meteor fragment when Clark jolted, disturbing her fragile grip on the slippery rock. 

Now she was trying to locate the plier's sharp ends in the midst of the blood and tissue so she might have another try but she needed Clark to stay still. Finally, Jonathan wrestled their son into a better position and she began the process again. Martha swore she could feel the flesh she was working around through the handles of the silver needle-nose pliers. "I never want to have to do this again," she thought as she pushed aside a thick strand of muscle. Clark's leg twitched beneath her fingers and he moaned in agony as she positioned the slender prongs over the shard. "It's almost done, honey," she whispered in the soft crooning voice she'd used when Clark was little and had bad dreams. "Mama's almost done. You just need to hold still for a few more minutes." 

"Mama?" Clark croaked. "Mama! Make it stop! It hurts!"

"Oh, God, help me," Martha sobbed as she tightened her grip on the handle. "It's going to be alright Clark. Just hold on for another minute, baby." With shaking hands, she gently rocked the shard back and forth in the cradle of Clark's femur. She could feel it loosening ever so slightly as she tried to ease it out far enough for her to pull it free. She did her best to ignore Clark's screams and weak movements and focus on the small piece of the heavens that was squeezed between the pliers but her best wasn't good enough. His hoarse cries penetrated her concentration like a scalpel through skin. 

Finally, she could stand it no longer and she gave the rock one hard, quick tug. A loud scream, a fleshy pop, and she was falling backwards. As her back slammed into the floor, she lost her painful grip on the pliers and they skittered away, leaving a smear of red across the shining white tile. Martha crawled after them as quickly as she could, wanting to be certain that she'd pulled the fragment free. Something small and bloody glowed by the toilet and she picked it up, taking the time to make absolutely certain there were no pieces missing from its edges.

"Martha!" Jonathan yelled to his wife even though she was only a few feet away. He couldn't help it. He was scared because, just as she had predicted, once the shard was freed the wound began to bleed. Heavily. And it seemed to him that a river of blood was flowing from his son's leg. "Martha get over here now!"

Martha heard the panic in her husband's voice but she had to make sure the shard was intact. "One second, Jonathan, I have to check this." She wiped the bloody fragment on her shirt and peered closely at the corners. The hideous stone was intact. With a small sob of relief, she tossed the shard into the lead box they kept handy for such emergencies and slammed the lid shut. Then she crawled over to the tub.

"Oh, God," she breathed, the sight of her son's lifeblood running down the drain giving her more of a start than she expected. "Can you hold up his leg?" Martha looked to Jonathan where he half lay across Clark's chest. "Has he quieted down enough for you to let him go?"

Jonathan nodded and released his hold on Clark's torso. Clark moaned and his head lolled back and forth across the back of the tub. "Mama," he whispered. "Make it stop. Please make it stop." 

***

He heard his mother call his name.

"Amana!" he wailed.

The trim figure of his mother appeared in the doorway and he ran to her with his right arm cradled against his small body, tears streaking down his face. 

"Ashay, what happened?"

His mother knelt beside him and took the rug-burned arm in her soft hands. She examined it a moment. "How did you do this, ashay? Did you slide down the ramp again?"

Clark nodded, his grey eyes brimming with tears. "It hurts, amana. Make it stop."

"I will do just that," she smiled as she pulled the medicinal spray out of her pocket. She'd heard him crying and somehow thought she might need it. The boy gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as the cool spray eased the pain of his raw flesh. He'd been chasing the emmet his father had given him for his birthday and tripped over the carpet on the ramp. He'd thrown his arms forward, hoping to stop his slide and he had, but his one arm was sore and red from the effort. 

"Is that better?" his mother asked.

Clark grinned at her and nodded. "Yes, amana. Thank you." He bowed then. He'd seen his father do it several times and, to his two-year-old mind, it looked very grown up. 

To his surprise and delight his mother laughed and picked him up in her arms, twirling him around so fast that the room spun. "Oh, Kalel! I do love you!"

Clark laughed, too, and held on, his chubby fingers entwined in his mother's hair. It didn't matter to him that her hair was the wrong color or that this place of his dreams wasn't his home. He wasn't even concerned that she called him by a different name. All he cared about was that he was safe here. And there was no pain.

***

Martha carefully wound the long strips of sheet around the tee shirt she was using as a bandage. With Jonathan supporting Clark's leg, she reached around and around, wrapping the wound tightly but not so tightly as to constrict the blood flow. *What little he has left* The thought came unbidden to her mind and she banished it with a mental shout, telling her subconscious to shut the hell up.

Clark moaned as she tied the strips together, securing the bandages.

"Eb shayte, amana. Dyun eb alte."

Martha's hands stopped their work and she stared at her son. She was aware that Jonathan, too, was staring at Clark, listening as the whispered words filled the bathroom. They'd heard words like that before, but not for a long, long time. When he first came to them, Clark didn't speak for almost two months. And when he did begin to talk, he spoke English. But in his dreams, Clark often called out in strange words that rang of distant galaxies and far off planets. There had been many nights when Martha sat by his bedside, soothing him out of a nightmare he hadn't the language to explain. To hear these words after so many years tore at her heart and made her wonder how far gone her son might be. 

"Jonathan . . . " 

"It's alright, Martha. Just finish up." 

Martha's gaze moved from her son to her husband. The sky-blue eyes were a calm port for her stormy emotions and she let herself sink into them for a few brief seconds. Then she drew a deep breath and finished her work. Jonathan continued to hold up Clark's leg while she rinsed the blood down the drain. Then they sat him up hoisted him out of the bathtub. 

Oddly enough, getting Clark down the hall had proved much more difficult than getting him up the stairs. Jonathan's strength was failing fast and he stumbled more than once during the short trip to Clark's bedroom. When they finally reached the bed, he dumped his son with a loud groan. 

"I can't do anymore," he said, exhaustion evident in his voice. "I'm sorry, Martha."

Martha gathered her husband in her arms and held him tight. It's alright. We're done. We're done. I can finish up here. Why don't you take a shower and I'll see to your head when you get out. How does that sound? Okay?"

Jonathan blinked at her a moment then sighed. "A shower sounds good. I'll be downstairs." He hauled himself wearily to his feet and headed for the door. 

"Downstairs? Honey, do you think you can make it that far?" 

He looked down the hall toward the bloody bathroom and shuddered. "I'll make it."

Martha watched him leave, her eyes bright with sympathy. She didn't think she'd ever look at that bathroom the same way again, either. But she'd think about that later, because right now she had work to do. She covered the gashes on Clark's chest with the large gauze pads she'd found in the medicine chest. Then she taped them in place. She wanted to make sure she could get to them so she could check Clark's progress. If the gashes were healing, then she could be reasonably sure that Clark was improving. If they remained open . . . well, she'd deal with that if the time came. 

When she was done, Martha sat down on the bed next to her son and smoothed the ebony hair away from his pale face. He was still hot to the touch but chills no longer wracked his body. For that she was grateful. Maybe it meant he was improving. She hoped so. Her fingers traced the face she loved so much. "You're so handsome," she said quietly. "I would never tell you this but I think those girls of yours are both fools. Someday they'll realize what they missed. Not that I'm saying looks are everything because they're not. I'm just saying that . . . you're one of kind Clark. You're smart and funny and nice. And if Chloe and Lana are too stupid to realize what a find you are they don't deserve you. I'm not sure we deserve you." The tears she'd kept at bay finally began to fall. "Oh, Clark," she sobbed, her chest heaving with the force of her emotion, "we love you so much. You have to come back to us. You just have to come back!


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: 

Again, my most sincere thanks to Deanine and MegaSponge for their thoughtful insights (now get back to work before your professors catch you!)

"The Swiss Family Robinson" is the work of Johann Wyss and is not an orginal work of the author. 

Remember that * Is an inner thought*. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 7

Jonathan stood beneath the cool spray, letting his weary head rest against the side of the shower stall. The tears he'd wept when he left his wife and son had long since been carried away by the gentle force of the water and only a dull ache remained in his chest, a lingering reminder of the force of his sobs. Now he wanted only to stand in the water and let his tired body rest. 

"God," he intoned silently, his very thoughts heavy with exhaustion, "I know I'm not the most religious of men. I haven't always been one for church and preaching, but you know I believe. Even when the crops failed, when the debt piled so high I thought we'd drown, even when I thought you were denying Martha the only thing she ever asked of you . . ." Jonathan stopped, his voice choking on the bitter memory of those terrible years Martha had spent longing for a child. He found it odd that the old anger could resurface so quickly. Still, he shook his head to clear it. He didn't have time to dwell on old pain. He had enough new pain to concentrate on. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed down the memories and continued. 

"Despite everything you've thrown at us, I've held onto my faith. And that hasn't been easy. I'm not like Martha. I find it hard to buy into the idea that everything happens for a reason. But I guess it's like my mama used to say, 'floods recede, faith remains'. Despite everything my faith remains. And because of that faith I can't believe you'd send Clark to us just to take him away now." Without trying, he could picture the terrible sight of the meteor shard sticking out of Clark's leg, could feel the horror of seeing Clark's blood gush forth as Martha pulled the shard free. Then, an unbidden thought came to his mind. One of Clark smiling at him through a maelstrom of hay as they pitched it at one another in an odd moment of play during a busy day. 

"He's the one thing between me and a life spent in bitter contemplation of all I've lost, all I'm losing," Jonathan confessed in rush of truth. "And we need him. I need him. . ." Jonathan sighed and turned his face into the spray, letting the sting of water against the cut on his head keep him focused. 

"I'm losing the farm by inches. I'm trying hard as hell not to make a deal with the devil just to keep food on the table because, despite what Clark and Martha think, Lex Luthor will be his father's son in the end. But he can wrangle a word, Lord. He can make the smoothest sales pitch you've ever heard and it's hard to say 'no' again and again and again knowing that my family's future rests on my choices. And it's hard to face Clark after I've turned him down. Clark is so trusting, so giving in his friendship. He's a good boy, Lord. And I would see the man he'll grow into." He raised shaking hands to his face, burying the heels of his hands into eyes that threatened tears he thought he'd long since shed. "I've never been a man to beg, not to the bank, not to my father, not to anyone, but I'll beg you now if I have to. Save my son. Give him back to us." He remembered then the words his mother used, the words he'd heard her use at his bedside every night. "In Jesus' name I pray. Amen." 

Jonathan breathed in a deep, shaky breath. He'd done all he could. "It's in your hands now," he muttered, then he rubbed his face hard under the water and looked down at his own hands. They were hard, work-roughened hands; the hands of a farmer, of a man who spent every day wrestling with the earth to feed his family. He studied them closer, as if he'd never seen them before. He could see the tough callous pads that dotted his palms and fingers. He turned them over and studied the tanned backs. He looked at his nails and gave a quick barking laugh. 

Usually, they were the only part of his hands that were smooth. Martha insisted that, while she found his rough hands very arousing in many ways, hangnails and torn cuticles could be painful for a girl. If he was going to touch her intimately, she would at least spare herself unnecessary discomfort, so she kept them neat and trim with a weekly manicure. At first he'd balked. Manicures were for women. "Or very pampered men," she'd said with a sexy smile and she'd taken off her clothes and done his nails wearing a lacy bra and panties. 

Ah! Manicure nights. Jonathan smiled as he contemplated the one night a week they set aside just for themselves. He would give Clark ten dollars, give him a huge wink, and tell him to go have fun and not be home until eleven. Clark would blush and say "Geez, Dad", and roll his eyes and go off with his friends for a movie or coffee. Then he and Martha would settle down to several uninterrupted hours of marital bliss and she'd do his nails. He would never have thought, growing up, that a manicure could be so sensual. She'd have a fit if she saw them now. 

Dirt was imbedded deeply under torn nails. The deep lines of his hands were still dark with dried mud and, Jonathan swallowed, Clark's blood. Suddenly, it seemed as if every dark splotch on his hands was covered with his son's blood and the thought made him want to retch for the second time today. He grabbed the washcloth and the soap, and made the water as hot as he could stand it. Then, with a look of grim determination, he began to scrub.

*****************

"Where am I?" 

Clark turned slowly, trying in vain to see something, anything. But no matter how hard he tried his eyes couldn't pierce the encompassing blackness that defined this place. Not even his x-ray vision could make headway through the gloom. He sighed tiredly and sat down, hugging his legs against his chest. Clark had no idea where he was or how he got there. It was if he simply woke from dreaming to find himself here, alone. 

"I want my mom." 

The thought surprised him, much as it would surprise any sixteen-year-old boy. He had begun to think of himself as invincible a long time ago and the thought that he would be filled with such a longing to hear even his mother's voice right now made his eyes sting with tears. He squeezed his eyes shut and rested his forehead against his knees.

*Think, Clark. Think. You can't figure out a way out here if you're all emotional.* The rational part of his mind was very calm, Clark thought, considering the situation. 

*Oh, yeah, right.* Clark's not so rational side decided to come up for some air. *We aren't going to find a way out of here. We don't even know where the hell here is.*

*Don't swear. You know Mom doesn't like it.*

*Well, Mom isn't here right now.*

"Stop it!" Clark told his mind firmly, his voice echoing slightly in the gloom. "You're not helping. If you can't figure this out, just shut up." He clamped down on his errant thoughts and shut his eyes. He was so tired. Maybe if he rested for a while he would be better able to think. 

*****

"What are all those for?" Jonathan reached out and took the mound of books from his wife. 

"Clark. They're his favorites. And some new ones I thought he might like."

"Honey," Jonathan's voice had the calming edge of someone who suspected the person he was speaking to had gone seriously over the edge. "He can't read them right now." 

For the past ten hours Clark had been still as stone, barely breathing, barely alive. They had kept a constant vigil at his bedside but there had been no improvement. Jonathan and Martha both wondered privately if this wasn't the end. Wondered if this was the one odd Clark couldn't beat. But they reassured each other that if Clark got this far, there surely had to be hope, no matter how slim.

Martha cocked her head at her husband's tone and wrinkled her face in a half frown, half smile. "They aren't for him to read, Jonathan," she told him in a tone that suggested he'd come very close to sounding like an idiot. "They're for us to read to him. I've read a lot of stories about people who are brought out of comas by people just talking to them. It's a scientific fact that even when it seems someone can't hear you, they can. So we'll talk to Clark and then when we can't think of anything to say, we'll read to him."

Jonathan was staring at her. "Do you think he's in a coma?" he whispered, his own mind barely managing to grasp 'unconscious'. 

Martha smiled and wrapped her arms around her husband. "I didn't mean it literally," she assured him quietly. "I just meant that maybe, if he hears our voices, he'll find his way back from wherever he is right now." She gazed into the blue eyes she loved so much, eyes that mirrored the Kansas sky in April. They were clouded with concern and fatigue but she could still lose herself in those depths if she allowed herself to. There wasn't time right now, though, so she simply stared into them for a moment, drawing strength and passing it back. 

"I love you, Martha Kent," her husband said with a kiss. 

She laid her hand across his cheek and smiled. "Why don't you rest while I talk to Clark."

*****

Something woke him. Something tangible here in this place of nothingness had woken Clark from the uneasy sleep that he'd fallen into. He sat up and waited, praying that whatever it was would come again. He didn't have to wait long. 

"'...sun sank in the west . . . been through a frightful ordeal . . . shipwrecked at sea, spent their first night on a desert island . . . '"

A voice was wafting through the blackness. And not just any voice, his mother's. 

"Mom," Clark whispered, afraid that if he spoke to it, the voice would vanish. 

"'The next day . . . roosters just outside . . . '"

His mother's voice faded in and out, and Clark had a hard time figuring out what she was saying. Still, something about the words were familiar. He stood up and began to walk, tentatively, toward the direction he thought the voice was coming from. 

"Mom?" he called, louder.

"'But alas, there was no one in sight. All we could see . . . wreck bobbing up . . . in the azure-blue sea.'"

Clark frowned as he walked. What was his mother talking about? His family was never shipwrecked at sea. Heck, they'd never even been to the ocean. Still, he followed the sound of her voice. 

*****

"Anything?" Jonathan asked his wife as she paused in her reading.

"No. Not yet. But I'm only just now getting to one of the'esciting' parts." 

He smiled at her joke. Clark was willing to sit patiently through a new book, but once it was done, he made his parents read his favorite parts over and over again. They usually involved pirates or sword fights or harrowing chases on horseback. "It's so esciting," Clark would shriek, much to his parent's amusement. 

"Well, why don't you take a break and I'll read for a while. I wouldn't want to miss anything good." 

Martha laughed. "Why, Jonathan, we've only read him this book a hundred and fifty two times, what could there possibly be left to miss?"

"Now, Martha, you're exaggerating. I know for certain we've only read this one a hundred and thirty seven times."

They laughed, a moment of release in the nonstop tension they'd been living for the past day. Each of them had slept a little, but not enough. Martha stretched her shoulders and handed the book to Jonathan. "A hot shower would be great," she admitted as he took her place by Clark's bed. "I'll get us something to eat, too."

"'kay. Well, where were we. Ooh. The quicksand. Well, then, here we go." Jonathan cleared his throat and began to read. 

"'And as he turned to retrace his steps, his feet slipped, and fell into the mud. Before he knew what was happening, he was up to his knees in the wet mud and sinking faster. ""Quicksand!" he shouted. "Help! Oh, somebody help me!'"

*****

Clark stopped and listened hard to the sudden silence. "Mom?" he called, afraid she'd left him alone again. Her voice was the only thing that penetrated the darkness that consumed him and he'd been following it for hours. Well, he thought it was hours. There was no way to tell time here but he knew he'd been walking long enough to be weary. Once or twice he'd tried to use his powers to run to her, but they didn't exist here. Or maybe they did but the black gloom was too deep to tell if they were working. He felt he was moving, though, because his mother's voice was becoming clearer. 

"Mom! Don't leave me here," he called, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. "You know I hate leaving a story in the middle." He'd finally figured out that his mother wasn't talking about something that happening at home, she was reading a book. It took him a while to put a title to the words but when he finally realized what it was, he laughed. "Talk about your dramatic irony," he'd mused. "I'm gonna have to talk to Mom about her choice of inspirational reading when I get back." His voice trailed off as he contemplated what he'd just said. "I will get back," he promised himself. Then, as if in affirmation of that very thought, a voice returned to the darkness.

"'And as he turned to retrace his steps, his feet slipped, and fell into the mud. Before he knew what was happening, he was up to his knees in the wet mud and sinking faster.'" 

*Dad!* Clark sighed in relief. His mother hadn't left him, she'd only sent his father to talk to him for a while. "I'm coming, Dad," Clark called, although he knew his father wouldn't answer. After all, he called to his mother several times during his journey and she'd given no indication she could hear him. But talking to them made him feel better as he walked, like when they call him home for dinner and he'd yell "Coming". His mom always teased him that he was loud enough to scare the chickens. He wished he could yell that loud now. But he couldn't so he focused in on his father's voice as he continued to read. 

"'Quicksand!" he shouted. "'Help! Oh, somebody help me!'" Clark smiled. His dad's voice carried a bit farther than his mother's had. He'd heard every word that time. 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Well, this is it. The last chapter. I'd like to send out some thank you's here: 

Thank you to Karri for being there when I was really stuck. You rock, girlfriend! (Although I suspect she was just trying to help me get through this so I could get back to work on "Heart" ;-)

Karri, I promise I'll start working on that right away. 

Thank you to Deanine for taking on the tremendous responsibility of being my muse and editor. This story would not be half what it turned out to be without her insight. 

Thank you to Mega-Sponge for absorbing all my bad grammar and run-on sentences.

And most especially I'd like to thank all you who reviewed this story and all those who took the time to contact me personally with their thoughts and encouragement. Your feedback was appreciated more than you know.

"Where the Wild Things Are" is the property of Maurice Sendak and is not an original work of this author.

* Is an inner thought*. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 8

Jonathan held the well-worn book in his hands, absently running his fingers over the cover which had become soft with age and handling. He gazed at his son and rested his weary head on the back of the rocker that Martha had dragged in shortly after their reading marathon started. The old chair had once been a fixture in this room, but he'd removed it years ago when Clark complained he wanted the extra space. Jonathan ran his hands over the smooth, worn wood and smiled. It felt good to sit there again at his son's bedside. "If only the circumstances were different," he sighed as he gazed at his boy.

For almost two days Jonathan and Martha had been reading and talking to Clark, with very few breaks taken in between. Still, Clark seemed to be a little better. His breathing was a little deeper than before and his skin had a bit more color. Martha had been keeping a close watch on Clark's wounds and found that, while they weren't completely healed, they were improving. In the deeper cuts on his chest, she could see where the tissue was beginning to knit together, and the leg wound had lost its vibrant red color and was now only slightly pink around the edges. If only Clark would show some sign of waking up, then they could both breathe easier.

Martha came in quietly and sat down next to Clark. She ran a loving hand over her baby's forehead, soothing back the errant ebony locks that had always had a mind of their own. She smiled at the memory of so many years spent trying to tame Clark's hair. 

"What?" Jonathan asked gently. He could see the smile from where she sat on the other side of the bed and wondered at it.

His wife shook her head slightly. "Nothing," she said in a hoarse whisper. The long hours of talking had taken their toll. "You'll think it's silly." She sent an almost shy look toward her husband.

"I won't. Tell me." Now he smiled.

"I was thinking about Clark's hair," she admitted. "Thinking about how hard it is to keep it neat."

"Ah, yes," Jonathan said wisely. "Hairzilla."

Martha stared at her husband for a moment then burst into laughter. "Jonathan!" She tried to sound indignant, but failed. "Where did you ever come up with that?"

Jonathan's laughter joined hers. "I didn't. Clark did. When he was about thirteen. That's what we've called it since."

"Thirteen? Why haven't I heard about this before?"

He shrugged, grinning wickedly. "It's a guy thing. You know how we guys are always giving things nicknames. You know, like . . . "

Martha's eyes widened with an unspoken threat. "And this is where the conversation stops, Jonathan Kent," she interrupted, laughing.

Jonathan laughed, too, and held up his hands in defeat. "Of course. Of course. Just making conversation." He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words left his mouth. Martha's smile faded and she turned again to their son.

"Are we doing the right thing, Jonathan?" she asked as she studied her son's pale face. "Is this really the best we can do?"

Warm arms enfolded her from behind and Jonathan's hand covered hers where it rested on Clark's. 

"Yes," he answered. "It is. Now, I was about to start another book. Wanna hang around?"

"Do you want me to read it? You've been here all night."

Jonathan hid a smile. His wife could barely speak, much less read. "No. I'm good." He sat back down in the rocker and picked up the book . He held it up for her to see. "I thought it was time to bring in the big guns."

"Oh, Jonathan! Where did you find that? I was looking for it earlier."

"Promise you won't tell Clark?" Her husband's eyes glinted with suppressed amusement.

"Promise." *I can't wait to heart this* she thought.

"Under his mattress." 

Martha didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. "I guess our baby isn't as grown up as he'd like us to believe."

"I think he comes by it naturally. I keep finding "Little House on the Prairie Books" in the living room." Martha blushed prettily and Jonathan grinned at her. "Don't worry. Both your secrets are safe with me. Now, shall we?" He opened the book and began to read.

*****

"I want to go home," Clark prayed. A single tear worked its way down his cheek. "Please, God, help me find my way home."

He was so tired. He'd been walking for days and his spirit was failing. He'd followed his parents' voices while they talked or read, and rested when they stopped. But the never-ending darkness was sapping his strength and he didn't know how much longer he could go on. 

Clark closed his eyes and pictured his mom and dad. He loved them so much. People sometimes asked him if he wondered about his real parents and, although, he'd answer that he sometimes thought about who they were, what he really wanted to tell them was that Jonathan and Martha Kent were his real parents. They were the only parents he'd ever known. Sometimes, in his dreams, he saw other faces, other people that he thought might be his mother and father. But he was never sure if it was really them, or his imagination. He would probably never know. Still, he was content with what he had. Of all the people in Smallville who could have found him, he was glad it was the Kent's. And it nearly killed him to think what they must be going through right now. 

"They must be worried sick," he told the darkness. "It's not like they can call a doctor or an ambulance like normal people. They have to be going out of their minds. I know I've been here a while and I know how Mom and Dad worry about me when something happens. So you have to let me go. Don't you see? I have to go home. Now."

Clark waited but there was no answer from the dark. He began to get angry. "I said I want to go home!" Tears of rage began to race down his cheeks. "I don't want to be here anymore! Do you hear me?" Exhaustion left him as he shouted into the blackness. "Show me how to get out of here!"

His voice echoed around him, swirling up and away into the blackness, then came back as a quiet whisper. He yelled again. A cry of pure frustration, containing all the rage and loneliness that consumed him, emanated from his throat. The scream howled around him like a demon given voice. Like a raging tornado it tried to pull him into the inky blackness, away from home, away from the sound of his father's voice. Clark closed his arms around himself, trying to ward off the maelstrom he'd created. Then the wind faded away, leaving only the dreaded silence in its wake. Clark collapsed to his knees and buried his face in his hands. "I just want to go home," he whispered brokenly. "I want to go home."

A sound began to filter through the nothing, then. It took Clark a moment to realize it was his father's voice. A sob hitched in his chest and he began to rock himself back and forth. "I'm sorry, Dad," he moaned miserably. "I can't find my way. I've tried but I can't find my way. Help me. Please somebody help me."

"'The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another . . . '"

"It's not working, Dad," Clark sobbed as he rocked himself. "Don't you see? The whole reading thing isn't working." 

"'...his mother called him "Wild Thing!" and Max said "I'll eat you up!" so he was sent to bed without eating anything. That very night in Max's room a forest grew . . . '"

The receding anger boiled up again in Clark's gut. "It's not working!"

"'...and grew . . . '"

"Don't you hear me?"

"'...and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around . . . '"

"IT'S NOT WORKING!" He lurched to his feet and screamed at his father, shaking his fists at the sound of Jonathan's voice. "IT'S NOT . . . " Clark stopped and took a deep breath. Then he took another. He shut his eyes, felt his eyelashes touch his bottom lids, opened them and then shut them again to be sure.

There was a light ahead and it was growing brighter. 

*****

"'...and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are.'"

Martha smiled at the familiar words as her hand continued to smooth the hair on Clark's brow. *It almost feels like Clark has really been away that long* she thought sadly. A sudden movement under her fingers caused her to pull her hand away and gasp. 

Jonathan stopped reading. "Martha? What is it? What's wrong?" Worry was clear in his voice. 

"I think . . . I think he moved," Martha breathed, afraid to say it lest it prove to be her imagination. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I don't know. Keep reading. Let's see if it happens again."

Jonathan gave his wife a long look then focused his eyes back on the pages in front of him. 

"'And when he came to the place where the wild things are . . . '"

This book had been Clark's absolute favorite. It was, in fact, the first book they'd ever read to him, Martha having read it the first night they'd found him. 

"'...they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws . . . '"

As he grew, he'd asked for them to read it over and over again at bedtime. Clark would roar when the wild things roared, and he'd bare pretend claws. Jonathan smiled at the memory, and hoped that if anything could strike a chord in his son, if anything could reach the faraway place where he lingered, it would be this book.

"'...till Max said "BE STILL!" and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things.'"

As he read, Jonathan recalled how Clark would practice long hours, trying to hypnotize things by staring at them. He'd tried it with his parents and with his friends. He'd given himself a headache on more than one occasion trying Max's 'magic trick'. Once Jonathan even caught him trying to hypnotize the cows. 

"I want to be king of all wild things, Daddy," Clark had told him then. 

Jonathan had laughed. "Haven't you looked in the mirror lately?" he teased. "You already are."

"'And now," cried Max, "let the wild rumpus start!'"

There it was again! Martha felt it for certain this time! Under her fingers, the muscles in Clark's face were twitching, ever so slightly. She pulled her hand away from his face and took his hand in hers. "Come on, Clark," she said softly over Jonathan's voice. "Come on, baby. It's time to come home now."

Beneath pale lids, Clark's eyes began to move. It looked to Martha like he was watching something, or dreaming. "Come on, honey. Wake up for us." In the background, Jonathan continued to read, glancing occasionally at his wife's face for any sign that Clark was responding. He heard her quiet voice encouraging Clark to open his eyes, to wake up. Without realizing he was doing it, he moved to the other side of the bed and sat down, taking Clark's other hand in his own. The book lay forgotten on the floor but Jonathan continued, the words memorized. 

"'Now stop!" Max said and send the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max the king of wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.'"

Clark's fingers twitched against Jonathan's hand. 

"'Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.'"

As Jonathan spoke, as Sendak's beloved words poured from his memory, he silently echoed his wife's encouraging words. 

"Come on, Clark. It's time for you and Max to both come home now."

It seemed to Jonathan and Martha that Clark's entire being was joined in the struggle to regain consciousness. His body, which had lain motionless for so long, now lay almost rigid with energy. His hands moved against theirs, his eyes moved incessantly as if trying to remember how to open. Still, Jonathan kept up his litany.

"'But the wild things cried, "Oh, please don't go - we'll eat you up - we love you so!" And Max said, "No!'"

Clark could hear his parent's voices; he could see the way getting clearer. Small shafts of brighter light broke away from the center, almost like the sun breaking through the storm clouds that frequently haunted the Kansas spring. 

*I'm coming!* he yelled toward the light as he fought against the impenetrable ties that held him. It almost seemed as if this dark place didn't want him to leave.

"'The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-bye . . . "

And then it was gone. The malevolent bonds that had been holding him to the clinging, suffocating blackness were gone and Clark slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. All around him was the bright gray that told him his eyes were closed and the sun was shining. He could feel his parents hands holding his. He could smell them, hear them breathe as they spoke. 

"'...and sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day . . . '"

"Come on, Clark!" Martha held a hand against Clark's face and rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone. "Wake up, honey." She could see his eyes moving slower and a stab of fear shot through her. What if they'd failed? What if it had meant nothing?

"...and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him . . . '"

Clark rested, gathering his feeble strength. The fight against the darkness had taken every ounce of energy he'd had but he'd won. The black void that had trapped him was nowhere to be seen. 

"'...and it was still hot.'"

All he had to do was open his eyes and he'd be home. Clark took a deep breath, and steeled his weary body for the greatest task he'd ever faced. 


End file.
